Chapter Text
Prologue:
.:.
Ilya gripped the sides of the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. He studied his own clenched jaw. The dark shadows under his eyes. He took a breath, but his chest felt tight, constrained. He felt twitchy in skin that felt too tight.
He tugged at the front of his shirt. He’d undone a couple of extra buttons on his vintage Jean Paul Gaulthier shirt, and you could just see the curve of his defined pecs, his cross hanging around his neck in its usual place. His hair fell in tousled curls. He looked great. He always looked great.
He wished he felt the same.
He tried another deep breath. He just had to make it through the night. Fight off the effects of the alcohol enough to stay in control and not do anything dumb at this holiday party.
Anything dumb, like touching someone's face. Even if his every waking thought was consumed by the idea of soft skin and plump lips.
And freckles… always freckles.
He shook his head. A pretty face was nothing new to him. This one just happened to be off limits. He had always loved a little danger. That’s all this was. He was being stupid.
He was Ilya Rozanov. He had this.
He stood up. Fixed his standard smirk on his face. And walked out into the party.
🏒
6 months earlier—
.:.
“And this is Shane,” Wyatt said. “Our top sales exec and one hell of a center on our company beer league hockey team. Almost went pro.”
Shane looked up from the report he was working on. He hated to be disturbed in the middle of something, but Wyatt was a good guy, so he took a mental picture of where he was and faced the intruders walking into his office.
“Shane, this is Ilya. Ilya Rozanov.. am I getting that right?”
“Yes,” the guy said. The single word was accented.
Shane looked up into golden, hazel eyes.
“Rozanov is new. He's joining Wiebe's team as the new director. He lead the team in sales at Omnicom and he just moved to Montreal from Boston.”
Shane was the best sales executive at Taxi, the best advertising firm in Montreal. Their agency was a global advertising firm for some of the biggest brands in North America. Omnicom was their top competitor. If they lost a pitch? It was usually against them. Now, it seemed as though their former lead sales executive would be working at Shane's agency.
“Uh, right. Hi. I’m Shane Hollander,” Shane said, holding out a hand over his desk. “Welcome to the team. Or, Wiebe's team, I guess.”
“Okay,” Rozanov said, looking at Shane’s hand with a bemused expression. After a long moment, he reached out and took it, shaking it slowly.
Shane felt caught in the guy’s eyes, unable to look away while his hand was held captive in a large, warm, firm grip. Shane took stock of his features. He had a chiseled jaw, golden curls, interesting moles, and broad shoulders. He was in a black button-up shirt that stretched, teasingly over defined muscles, and dark fitted jeans.
"That's right, I guess you'll both be competing for top dog here," Wyatt continued. "The two sales teams at Taxi are always trying to one up each other to win. The top team gets better commission and wins a trophy. And gets bragging rights, obviously. The big boss, Cromwell—you'll meet him—says it creates healthy competition. Mostly, it makes everyone crazy. Set a bunch of competitive assholes against each other and see what happens, right?"
Shane swallowed, barely listening, and the new guy’s mouth pulled into a lopsided, cocky smirk. It made Shane’s stomach twist. He hated the feeling immediately.
Shane blinked, realizing the handshake was still going on. He yanked his hand back. The smirk widened.
“Hey Wyatt, got a sec?” Someone called from the hall, and Wyatt turned his attention briefly.
Shane thought the new guy might follow, but instead his gaze remained unblinking on Shane’s face. Shane fought the urge to squirm under the scrutiny.
Shane already didn’t like this guy. Which was only solidified by the next words out of his mouth.
“So you are best, yes? Will not be much longer.” Was that a Slavic accent?
Shane gaped at him. “I’m sorry? How do you figure?”
“You are sorry? Because I am better?”
“What? No-I…” Why did Shane feel on the back foot in this conversation. This was his office. Who even was this guy?
Wyatt stuck his face back into Shane’s office. “Come on, Roz, I’ll introduce you to everyone else.”
The asshole, Rozanov, nodded, regarded Shane for one last long second before he turned and followed.
“Can I call you Roz?” Wyatt asked as they walked away.
He watched Wyatt pull the new guy into another office for more introductions. The offices had glass walls, so he was able to track their progress as Wyatt introduced him to the rest of Shane’s sales team.
It took him longer to refocus on his work than he’d care to admit.
Whatever, he thought, I bet that guy will be shit and gone in a week.
Four weeks later:
.:.
It turned out Shane was bad at prophecies.
Ilya Rozanov was neither shit nor gone. In fact, he seemed to be fucking everywhere.
He was standing in the way, laughing with Marleau in the office kitchen when Shane arrived at work in the morning to put his protein shake in the fridge.
He was joking with Troy at the water cooler when Shane was thirsty.
He was leaving the gym in their office building as Shane was arriving, sweat glistening on biceps the size of Shane’s head.
One thing Shane had been right about was his first impression of the guy. Shane hated him. He was annoying and over-confident to the point of obnoxious.
He was in Shane's brain as he lay in bed at night wishing for sleep but instead remembering how Rozanov had won a pitch earlier that day and earned himself a visit and a handshake from the CEO himself.
"One hell of a meeting, son. This new account will win us some awards. Keep up the good work," Cromwell had said. "Hollander!" he'd called as Shane had tried and failed to slip by unnoticed. "Rozanov is giving you a run for your money. Better not let him out sell you."
"Wouldn't dream of it, sir," Shane had said back, unease crawling up his spine.
He was disrupting the whole office by loudly inviting everyone out for drinks, recruiting Marleau, Svetlana and a group of giggling girls.
"Shane," Stevlana called out to him through the open door of his office.
He looked up. The rest of the group was chattering amongst themselves but two sets of eyes stared at him. Svetlana and Rozanov. He didn't really know Svetlana. She'd worked here a few months longer than he had an he'd heard a rumor she was related to someone high up in the company. They'd never exchanged more than a few words in passing.
"Want to come for a drink?" she asked.
"I, uh, don't really drink. Well, not on weeknights anyway," he said.
Something flashed in Rozanov's eyes then, something unreadable. "Of course you don't," he said. "Good Boy Hollander, makes sense."
Shane narrowed his eyes. It rankled. He knew people teased him behind his back, but no one came out and just said it. In front of everyone. "Is that a bad thing? Being good? Sorry I don't like to feel like shit on a Thursday morning."
"No, is very good, Hollander. Enjoy beauty sleep."
And with that, they left. Svetlana gave him a small wave. The giggling and laughter, probably at his expense, faded as they climbed onto an elevator and left.
He was messing with Shane's structure and routine. Shane lived by his structure and routine. He was so sick of the guy. How had it only been a month? It felt like a lifetime.
So he wasn't exactly surprised when Theriault, Shane's boss and one of the two vice presidents, clasped his shoulder. “Rozanov is going to join this next meeting, get the lay of the land.” His French accent thick as always.
Shane swallowed his annoyance. He’d been here a month. Didn’t he have the lay of the land? “Of course, sir.”
“Bon,” he said in French. “Then maybe he'll be ready to join next week and we can finally close SportChek.”
Shane grimaced. “You know how they are, sir. They refuse to talk about switching agencies.”
“Maybe Rozanov will have a magic touch.”
“I am very convincing,” Rozanov said, popping up behind them like a killer clown in a haunted house.
Rozanov smirked at Shane, and Shane wanted to punch it right off his face. What color were his eyes even? Green? Grey? Gold? Choose a fucking colour and stick to it.
“Don’t worry, Hollander.” and that was the other thing. “I won’t win all the accounts. Just the exciting ones. I’ll leave the boring ones for you.” Shane absolutely hated the way Rozanov said his name. The way his accent curled around the syllables like he was caressing them with his tongue? It made Shane feel a little ill.
Shane repressed a frustrated groan. It was official. He needed a exorcism or a baptism or a juice cleanse. Whatever was going to rid him of this Russian pest, he'd take it.
Shane was the best at his company. That’s why he got the good corner office even though he was one of the younger guys. His boss had seen potential in him early and put him on a fast track path to the top.
Shane had the ability to focus on his work in a way his coworkers struggled to emulate. When he was locked in, nothing could break that focus. He performed tasks to a T. He was detail oriented. If that meant his best friend, Hayden Pike, told him there were rumours that he was part robot? Well, so be it. Shane was great at his job, but he wasn't always the best with people, and that suited him fine. He had a couple of friends, and that was all he needed. Clients liked him because he was diligent, hardworking, confident and kind. He got by on his awkward charm. People liked him, mostly. And the ones that didn't, he usually was able to avoid.
Since he’d joined the company a few years ago he’d won major accounts like CCM Canada Hockey equipment, Bauer and Cervelo. His clients weren’t all sports brands, but most were. Shane had carved out a niche and made a name for himself.
And now Ilya Rozanov was trampling all over it. In the four weeks he’d been at the company, he’d won Strava, Adidas and Warrior.
The execs were thrilled. Both Shane’s boss and the other VP who ran Ilya's team, Wiebe, were practically ready to tattoo his name on their chests.
It was great for the company, which was obviously all Shane cared about, secondary only to his own career. He could be happy for Rozanov. Or at least he theoretically assumed he could. And he would. He was!
Sure, he’d been waking up earlier and had added a daily meditation to his scheduled morning workout every day. And maybe he'd been doing yoga in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep. But he'd get used to this new normal… eventually. He was sure of it. Or at least his mom assured him he would when he called to complain about it.
Which is why, a week later when he walked into the locker room for the first beer league hockey game after the July hiatus and encountered a certain Russian, Shane was FINE. Shane was fucking dandy.
Okay, more like Shane was overwhelmed and struggling to deal with all the feelings and horrors and wanted a moment in a dark quiet room so he could remember how to human.
Because of course… Rozanov played hockey.
"Hollander! You skate?”
Shane clenched his jaw and gripped his hockey bag so hard his knuckles hurt. He could feel his cheeks heating and wished fruitlessly that the blush would go away. “Yupp. Like Wyatt told you on your first day. I play center.”
Rozanov’s eyes twinkled in that infuriating way that he really only got when he was about to be obnoxious. “Ah yes. Was very boring, I forget. I am also center. So we will be on opposite teams. Best one wins, yes?”
Wyatt chuckled, “I dunno, Roz. Shane is pretty good. Almost went pro.” Shane looked around, realizing there were other people there. In fact, the room was filled with their colleagues. He walked to his normal stall, pulling his hoodie off and hockey gear on.
“Me too. Was pro.”
“What?” Shane asked. And if it came out a little screechy and high pitched? Well, no, it didn’t. “You played professionally?”
“In Russia. KHL. Couple years. Long time ago now,” Rozanov said with a shrug and pulled his pads over his base layer.
Shane stared at him. Shane was only 25. He figured Rozanov was a similar age. Which meant his professional hockey career wasn’t that long ago now.
Shane dressed and mentally prepared for the game with his pregame rituals while the group chatted around them. Or at least he tried to get his mind to focus on anything other than Rozanov telling the whole locker room a story about a time in the KHL when they'd been about to lose and he'd managed a trick shot in the shootout and saved the game.
Not a moment too soon, Wyatt called out that the ice was ready. Wyatt was an operations manager at the company and was a nice guy. Somehow that had translated to him managing the operations of their beer league team as well.
They got out onto the ice and warmed up with a couple of laps around the rink. Shane could tell immediately that Rozanov had a comfort on the ice that the other guys in the league lacked. It looked like he’d been born with skates on. Usually, only Shane skated like that here.
“Okay. Roz and Hollzy on opposite teams. I’ll be with Roz,” Wyatt called out when they skated to center ice. “Price can be in goal for Hollander. Troy and Marleau with Roz. JJ and Hayden with Shane. Everyone else pick a team and we’ll play 5 on 5.”
The team split quickly with JJ calling out in his Haitian accent, “We're going to crush you.”
He held up a fist, and Shane bumped it.
They lined up, ready to face each other. Shane against Rozanov at center ice. The ref skated out and got into position for the puck drop.
“Are you going to disappoint them, Shane Hollander?” Rozanov asked, his obnoxious smirk firmly in place.
Shane kept his eyes focused on where he knew the puck would land.
“Nope.”
The puck dropped.
The next 60 minutes proceeded to be the hardest and most frustrating minutes of hockey that Shane Hollander had played since he was in the AHL and destined for the NHL draft.
Shane won the face off.
But the moment didn’t last long. Rozanov chased him off the line and in the blink of an eye, with some fancy stick handling, had stolen the puck back. He shot down the ice like a bullet from a gun. Hayden and JJ, to their credit, fought him for the puck. He was just too fast.
There was a brief tussle before Rozanov outskated them entirely, and looking like it was the easiest thing in the world, hit a slap shot into the top right pocket. Price, despite being a huge dude, didn’t stand a chance.
The cherry lit up. The other team cheered.
“Is good, yes? I can teach you how to play anytime, Hollander,” Rozanov teased as he skated by.
Shane saw red. Fuck the KHL, this was his game. His beer league. His arena.
The next time he had the puck, Rozanov was not so lucky. Shane managed a steal, and the next goal went to his team. And the one after that.
As the gameplay got more intense, it also got more aggressive.
Their teammates were basically just trying to survive and not get in the middle of the Hollander - Rozanov show.
It wasn’t how Shane usually played. He usually was happy to pass and allow fair game time play for everyone on the ice. After all, it was just for fun. Plus, his team always won.
Tonight, he wasn’t in the mood to be magnanimous.
Tonight he was here to win.
“Hey guys, let’s keep it civil, yeah?” Wyatt called out after a particularly hard shoulder check from Rozanov to get Shane off his tail.
Wyatt was ignored.
Shane chased Rozanov down and retaliated with a hip check, successfully stealing back the puck.
It was tied two-two, and the game was winding down. Beer league didn’t go to OT. Shane just needed one more goal, but his team was on the defence. They just had to get possession one last time, and the game was theirs. But Rozanov was all over him.
One second, Shane had it. The next? The puck vanished along with a Russian tornado. Shane took off after him, but he knew he was too late. Rozanov spun, basically skating a circle around Hayden, and flipped the puck into the net and past Price’s outstretched glove. The light went red.
And the team celebrated like they’d won the Stanley Cup and not a beer league hockey game, whose winners usually bought the losers a bottle of whiskey at the end of the season.
Marleau had hoisted Roznov off the ice and was spinning him around in a circle while they yelled.
Shane's team skated over, much more subdued, and gave him fist bumps.
“Good job,” Rozanov said to each of his teammates in turn before turning to Shane.
“You tried so hard, was cute,” he called over.
Shane ground his teeth into dust.
“You sure are sweating a lot for cute,” Shane pointed out.
Rozanov’s hair was plastered to his forehead, and his cheeks were rosy. Shane looked away.
“Shit, Shane. That’s the hardest we’ve ever played. Were you trying to kill me?” Wyatt asked.
Shane didn’t answer, his cheeks heating and his glare deepening as Rozanov’s smirk got bigger, his eyes twinkling. “Oh? Did you try to win? I did not notice.”
“Okay, good game. Let’s hit the showers,” Shane said and skated off in the direction of the locker room.
But when he got to his locker, he never did make it into the shower. He started to peel off his gears and pads before turning around to deal with his skates, tape and breezers. He sat in front of his locker and looked up.
And there was Rozanov. Across the room, his back to Shane, facing his locker. Peeling himself out of his sweat soaked base layer and revealing miles upon miles of creamy skin and gloriously sculpted muscle. He reached up for his water bottle that was resting on the top shelf and the muscles in his back actually rippled.
And then…
he dropped his pants.
And revealed the most incredible ass Shane had ever seen.
Shane stared at it, swallowing hard. His whole body was tense, a bow string pulled tight, as his brain seared the image into his eyeballs without his permission.
He needed to leave.
He had to get out of here immediately.
So he did something insane. He stripped to his compression tights and pulled a clean hoodie onto his dirty body. He couldn't get his mouth to work so he grunted, waved, grabbed his bag and left.
Then, he put a towel on the seat of his car and drove home.
Shane was sure he'd fully lost his mind. Shane hated being dirty. And he hated being dirty in his car. He was gonna have to get it fully detailed now. Or burn it down. Along with the clothes he was wearing. He was so hot, he wasn't sure it wasn't going to happen by accident anyway.
What the hell was wrong with him? He felt like he was unraveling.
He wasn’t gonna survive working another day, another moment, with this asshole.
The next day was a Thursday. He was determined to have a better day. Shane liked Thursdays.
He still couldn't believe how much he had lost his shit the night previous. He also refused to acknowledge what he'd thought about when he'd finally gotten himself into the shower or what may or may not have happened in the shower. No, he wasn't thinking about it. He'd taken a small dose of maletonin and managed a few hours of sleep.
He was going to do better. He was sure of it. The gym had been quiet that morning. He was sore from the intense hockey game so he'd stuck to an upper body weight training session and got in a light jog.
It was going to be a good day. He managed to pour his coffee in peace. His smoothie tasted especially green. He had some good meetings scheduled. All he had to do was avoid a loud, obnoxious asshole, and he had this.
He made it three hours.
It was just before noon when he heard a bunch of yelling and some clapping coming from out on the floor.
Their office took up the top three floors of a high rise building in the Old Port of Montreal. It was a large, modern glass building, and the space was beautiful. On Shane’s level, the sales and marketing area, there was the kitchen, a modern space that was all dark wood, warm LED lighting and featured a large island that had company-provided snacks on it of varying degrees of health levels. Glass offices dotted along the outer walls that were given to directors and the VPs. In between the kitchen and offices were large shared desks where the rest of the sales and marketing teams sat. And in the middle was ‘the floor.’ An area filled with tables and couches.
When the noise didn’t die down and only grew louder, Shane finally gave into curiosity and went to check it out.
Sure enough, there was a large group that was steadily growing in the middle of the floor. And at the center was none other than Ilya Rozanov.
“What’s going on?” Shane asked Hayden, who was standing on the outskirts of the group, chatting with JJ. He glanced up at Shane. He looked nervous.
That wasn’t good.
“What?”
Hayden glanced at JJ and they seemed to have a silent conversation.
“What?” Shane asked again.
JJ seemed to lose whatever silent battle that was going on. The large Haitian rarely looked nervous at anything, so it didn’t bode well when he looked at his feet and scuffed his high end sneaker against the carpet before squaring his shoulders and looking at Shane.
“Rozanov won Sport Chek.”
Shane’s brain was making a whirring sound. He was trying to process this information.
Rozanov won Sport Chek. But they said they weren’t going to consider changing agencies until next year?
Or, at least, that’s what they had told Shane.
He felt heat crawl up the back of his neck as his frustration rose. He needed to process. It was too loud, and there were too many people. People who were starting to notice he’d come out of his office.
Eyes were turning towards him. Specifically, a pair of golden eyes.
“Did you hear the good news, Hollander?” Rozanov called out. Teasing smirk fixed firmly in place.
“Congratulations,” Shane gritted out. His brain was a record skipping.
Fortunately for him, Ilya’s manager entered the fray and put an end to it before Shane was forced to engage further.
“Alright, alright. Don’t you all have jobs to do? We’ll head out tonight after work to celebrate. Get back to work,” Wiebe yelled.
Shane took the opportunity and fled back to his office.